


In the Wind (Sky High)

by DollyPop



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, F/M, Flying, Gen, Reverb 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 05:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7494867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DollyPop/pseuds/DollyPop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maka has learned to call the sky home while her father is off, busy with his affairs. And she is too good, flying up on her broom as though she has wings. Yet, as Maka gets older and enrolls in Hogwarts, becoming a beater on their Quidditch team, she finds flying a vicious therapy, as it reminds her of the Papa who left her heart heavy, who comes to none of her games. Now that the Championship is here, she cannot help but hope, somewhere, that he could cheer her on like he used to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [In den Wind schreiben](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/213504) by HappyisaHabit. 



> Welcome to Reverb 2016! I had the pleasure of pairing up with HappyisaHabit over on tumblr at http://www.happyisahabit.tumblr.com, and all the art embedded in this story belongs to them! Their art can be found in full at http://happyisahabit.tumblr.com/post/147450503820/in-den-wind-schreiben-to-write-in-the-wind-means and I highly suggest you check them out!!!

When she dreamed, she remembered the past that she had tried to block out. The world she knew when awake, eleven years old and already jaded, faded away into nothing more than a sweet breeze, her pigtails sloppily done by her father’s hand and the air tasting clean and crisp.

Really, her memories are never so much in clarity as when she has her face buried in her pillows, when she has locked herself away from the incoming day, groaning her displeasure at the idea of being woken up. In sleep, she was immersed in the memory of being thrown in the air, the feeling of being weightless.

With Papa, when she was just a girl, small and hollow-boned, she felt like a bird. Papa could fly faster than anyone she had ever seen before, even the people on the TV. And she recalled begging and begging and _begging_ until he decided to take her outside with a broom too big for her, his, to let her hover barely a foot off the ground as he gave her a quick ride in circles around the house, much to her delight.

It was a beautiful memory, rendered in the colors of her childhood: bright red hair and a clean white smile, the entire color spectrum of her father’s plain, solid T-shirts and her old green helmet that she still had somewhere in the back of her closet.

In those memories are others, more vivid. Like when Papa’s hands were on her sides and he was grinning, his lips split with how wide his smile was, and he laughed at her giggles as he held her up and let her pretend she was a helicopter. She was a natural in the air, meant to be built with wings instead of arms, and he held her, his grip firm but gentle.

“Higher, Papa!” she squealed, her arms thrown out to her sides, her legs kicking in the air, and he looked so _proud_ of her. The breeze blew one of her pigtails into her face, and she could practically chew on her own hair as she laughed. Papa lifted her higher, barely, but she was small and her father was her world and he was raising her up into the heavens that she was so desperate to sail into.

For a long time, that’s all there was. He didn’t let her touch his broom, though he certainly showed it to her, explained it to her. Now, she knew it was because he was too scared by the idea of letting her, metaphorically, leave the nest. He was horrified at the idea of his precious girl (and the thought burns) getting hurt on a broom.

So, she read book after book about flying, memorized them down to the science of theory, learned them cover to cover and yearned so deep in her eight-year-old bones that she didn’t think she could ever want anything more. And Papa was happy that she was happy, that she was interested, invested and excited excited excited.

But it was only a year later, when she turned nine, when Mama went off to a convention for months on end, that he took Maka to the store, hand in hand, and she skipped forward in her shiny little shoes into the mall. It was only when she turned nine and Papa and Mama didn’t look at each other the same way that he bought her her first broom.

It’s a good broom. It was a good broom, then, and it is a good broom, now. Heavy at the back to balance her and perfectly light in the front, with grips for her little hands and a golden trim holding the bristles in place through several years and tumbles. She had loved it as a child and loves it still. And hates it just as much. It reminds her of being nine, again, when Mama was gone for long stretches of time and she would always ask when she’d be coming back. Papa would tell her it would be soon, always soon, before he would take her outside to fly. To distract her. To keep her in the dark.

She was a natural. She _is_ a natural. She is built to be in the air.

In her closet, save for the skeletons, there were the extras that Papa had gotten her back when she was first learning. The things she had decided to leave behind. The training straps that had kept her attached to the broom are worn at the fastenings, and her green helmet, several sizes too small for her, now, has a total of three cracks and a sticker from when she fell a tad too hard and Papa took her to the doctor and they said she was fine, just like she’d told him. There were armpads and kneepads for a nine year old girl’s elbows and legs, scratched and scraped up with limp elastic, and there were tiny, mud-caked shoes with the rubber soles coming off because she had loved them to actual pieces.

There was her broom. The broom Papa bought her, the broom he taught her on. The broom she fell off of, time and time and time again, falling to the dirt where Papa was near, always there to catch her. Or, if not, there was always candy her Mama would disapprove of her eating and a bandaid with her favorite Quidditch player plastered on the front. And that would make it all better without fail. To think it was once so simple. A kiss to her knee, to her skinned palms, and she was ready to get back on the broom again.

They were beautiful dreams. They were beautiful memories.

And she hated them hated them _hated them_.

* * *

 

 

The alarm clock went off like a banshee wail in her ear, angry and shrill, and she nearly fell off of the side of the bed in her haste to turn the damned thing off.

Whoever decided that waking up at 6 in the morning was any sort of proper schedule was, frankly, delusional, and, for a brief moment, she forgot why she was waking so early. Especially when the rain was pouring against her windows with all the fury of a hurricane, and she likely looked like she had stepped out of the gale instead of from slumber with how her hair felt like a rat’s nest when she ran her hand through it.

Groaning, she squinted out into the gloom, trying to let her mind catch up with her. Instead, her eyes caught sight of her calendar, hanging off to the side and color coded with little notes, and she instantly remembered.

That was right. Her last day before she went off to Hogwarts. Instantly, she was awake as she remembered packing and her Papa’s proud, teary face.

Something inside of her sank.

Papa.

Perhaps the rain was apt for such a day, after all. A good excuse not to fly with her, again, as usual.

Really, she was looking forward to Hogwarts, all things considered. Hogwarts was a wonderful place with tall spires on the highest points of the castles and a bright, rich interior. Orientation would forever be a favorite day for her, and she remembered her most recent visit last week with Aunt Marie, who had filled in for Spirit when he flaked on her, but it didn’t matter, much. Maka still had a good time, skipping to the library and the Quidditch field and everything in between. Hogwarts was lovely.

It was something else that was sinking inside of her. It was that, when she finally mustered up the courage to peer out into the gray, she knew what she would see. She was supposed to spend the day with Papa, her last day before she would leave home. Everything else was packed save for two changes of clothes and her toothbrush, some various goods that she could just throw into a bag when she was ready to leave for the train tomorrow. And her broom, the new one that Papa insisted she get when they went to the various stores.

All her books had been bought, the parchment, the enchanted pens that never ran out of ink. Papa spared no expense though she knew he should have. It wasn’t as though that stuff as cheap.

At least, she thought scathingly, he remembered to get her school supplies. Made up for it all with something, at least. Because it seemed that he had forgotten about spending the day with her. Money was no matter to him, but time was bitterly short.

He could call her his darling baby girl all he wanted, and buy her a pretty broom, and tell her he was proud of her, but it didn’t change the fact that he was wandering out into the rain with his arm around yet another woman, his umbrella raised high over his head. Likely escorting her out after a late night, she thought, his hair mused.

Something inside of her swelled, an angry, swollen piece of her heart.

It was supposed to be a daddy-daughter day, a day where she could feel like a child again before she had to go out and find herself in an unfamiliar world where the only faces she knew were Uncle Stein’s, unconventional even on a good day, and Aunt Marie’s, who was kind, but who wasn’t Mama, no matter how hard she tried to make Maka feel at ease.

But she didn’t feel at ease. Instead, she felt like something inside of her ribcage was throbbing, climbing up to the center of her throat.

Well, forget Papa, then. Forget his daddy-daughter day, forget his new girlfriend (if she could even be called that), forget racing.

She was a big girl. She didn’t need the training wheels or the safety straps. She didn’t need armpads or a bandaid and her Papa holding her broom up for her. She could do it by herself like she’d been doing it for herself for over half a year.

Maka threw the covers off with a sharp ferocity and got up from the bed. Her bare feet landed down on her carpet and she stood up almost immediately though her body protested for a stretch. Her clothes were rumpled, her pajamas bunching around her legs and the sleeves of her shirt rolled up to her armpits in sleep, but she didn’t care. She barely even noticed. The only thing that she wanted to do was get out of the house where everything reminded her of Papa and Mama and what she was leaving behind.

She knew Papa was out of sight. Didn’t even have to turn to the window and check. She had watched him leave too many times in the past not to have memorized the way he walked with his arm around a woman that wasn’t Mama. She had seen his back depart, farther and farther away from her and their house until he got to the end of their driveway and ushered whatever random lady he had with him into the car he used to drive her and Mama to ice cream parlors in.

She doubted he was taking that lady to the ice cream parlor. Likely just driving her home so she wouldn’t have to make her way alone when the sun wasn’t even out. Maka chewed on her lip, something sick and sad growing her heart harder. Probably, he’d stay at her place. He always did.

Her mouth tasted sour and she reached for her broom, her fingers itching, her bones humming with the desperate urge to get up and leave the ground. She wanted to be weightless. She wanted to disappear and forget, if even for just a few precious moments.

Yet, as she reached for the handle of her broom, engraved with only her first name as she had requested, she spotted the picture of her and Papa that Mama took so many years ago.

The frame was simple, a clean, spotless glass keeping the photograph safe from the two years of age it had collected. Mama never liked being in photos, but she loved taking them. She was a fan of holding the camera up over her eyes and telling Maka to say cheese and Maka would, stretching her lips out wide as she yelled.This one, though, wasn’t like that. There was no posing, no unnatural contortion of her face.

It was just her and Papa and the green little helmet she was leaving behind in the room she didn’t want to be cooped up in. Mama had taken it on a rare instance that she was out on a flying lesson with the two of them, watching them from the sidelines and cheering Maka on from the ground.

When Mama first presented it to her, printing it out from their Muggle printer that they kept down in the basement, she’d been overjoyed.

Now, she didn’t want to see her Papa’s face. Not when he was all too happy at turning his back on her. Maka scoffed, feeling her eyes burning, and she slammed her palm down against the frame, setting the picture down so she didn’t have to be assaulted by the aching, gaping memory of when her family was still happy. When Mama was still around and all too willing to take beautiful pictures to catalogue them.

There was no time for that, now. There would never be time for that again.

Maka grabbed her broom with a grip that was more deadly and desperate than anything else. She didn’t care about her sleep shorts sliding down her hips or her shirt twisted around her torso. She couldn't care about the fact that she didn't even have socks on as she raced out into the downpour.

For a moment, as she ran, her broom swung by her side, her most constant companion, and she remembered being eight again. She remembered the exhilaration of running outside, she remembered the way her very blood felt fizzy with how giddy she was, and how her feet came over the clean ground of the hardwood floors Papa had put down.

And then, the feeling was gone, replaced with something else, something that made her hair stand on end, something that goosefleshed her skin and made her throw the front door open and not care if she left it that way, letting the world rain on the welcome mat.

This time, she was practically skidding down the walkway. Her bare feet and her thin clothes and her hair was drenched immediately, but her magic welled up in her as naturally as breathing. To fly was to live. To fly eas to inhale and feel her heart pumping through her entire body.

So she brought the broom before her, still running as she took a sharp left and took off over her lawn, toward the large expanse of heaving green trees that she used to dash between, her Papa in swift pursuit but always just a breath away from catching her. Maka was lightning on a broom. Maka was a storm.

She felt like a storm. She felt like a hurricane when she finally managed to find cover from any prying eyes, though it was unlikely if not absolutely ridiculous for anyone to be sightseeing in such weather. Still, it was what she was practiced at doing, a routine she had perfected over the two years since she first turned nine and got that too-small broom.

Now, she stretched her mouth open just as the thunder boomed and threw her broom beneath her in a swift, fluid movement. The momentum from her run took her forward faster and faster and she faltered just for an instant before her magic hummed around her and she stabilized.

Both her hands came to the handle of her broom until she was balancing with seeming ease, lifting higher and higher into the sky. She had no goggles and no boots; she had no helmet. The training wheels had long since been taken off and the safety had left her head and the rain fell around her in a slick sheet of protection.

She wanted Mama. She wanted to go back to her bed to bury her face in the pillows and wanted the crack of lightning splitting the sky to consume her in a flash of brilliant light that could distract her from the reality of her situation.

Maka no longer asked when Mama was coming home. There was no more “soon.” There were only divorce papers and Papa’s empty bottles, only mornings when she went on flights alone even though Papa promised her that he was going to go with her. There was only Maka, now. Maka in the air, Maka with her vision blurring.

From the rain, she told herself. Just from the rain.

And as the wind ruffled her hair and her clothes, as the dampness of the downpour overtook her, drowned out her small sniffles and her soft gasps of air as she desperately tried to get a hold of herself, she took a hand off of her broom to wipe the water from her face, from her cheeks.

Darn rain. It was a bad idea to fly in that kind of weather and she knew it and she didn’t care.

As she brought her forearm across her eyes, hovering high in the sky where there was nothing, not even a single cloud to weigh down upon her, she let loose a hard, heavy sob, hiding herself away from the rest of the world.

Stupid Papa. Stupid Hogwarts. Stupid dreams.

In the thinned out air, Maka yelled like a banshee, a mournful cry like a keening wail that carried into the windows of Muggle homes and made them lift their heads from their pillows for an instant, wondering what the yelling was about before they let themselves rest once more.

And she envied them.


	2. Chapter 2

Her life started and ended in dreams where she dwelled on a past and a ‘maybe’. At times, that felt like enough. At times, it was so painful that it hollowed out her stomach and made her feel ill. She was a little girl with little girl dreams that she didn’t want to allow herself, and, in sleep, she remembered her mother’s smile and how Papa looked when he had eyes only for her Mama and her.

Her life started and ended in dreams where she considered it the best.

Going to the train, she was escorted to the platform by Papa, his collar still askew, his smile apologetic, making her feel as though the world was going to open to swallow her whole. She didn’t want him to accompany her. She needed to do this, alone.

So, she left her broom in her room where it could gather dust with the antiques of her joy: her helmet and gauntlets and the photograph of her and Papa back when ‘family’ had weight to him.

She left her Papa standing on the platform where he watched her retreating back and she told him she’ll call when she got to Hogwarts.

She left her childhood behind on the dusky, dirty platform between trains 9 and 10, where other groups all hurled themselves in, mother and father and child and some siblings to boot all stumbling through the passageway to usher their baby into the train with teary smiles and, “Promise you’ll write!”

Maka left her father in the middle of two trains, and she left her broom in her closet, and she left her dreams behind her, somewhere where her pigtails caught in the wind.

Or, she thought she did.

* * *

The train wobbled beneath her feet and rattled the window and rattled her brain around and she wanted to be at Hogwarts sooner rather than later. A piece of her thought she would get there faster by herself, even with her broom bogged down by her suitcase. But it was too late for thoughts like that.

Though, she’d be in equally as good company. Her compartment was empty. Train rides were terribly boring when there was no one to share them with. Not that she wanted to share them with anyone.

Even if her heart _did_ do a quick jump in her chest when her compartment opened up, the relief arching through her very soul when she looked over to the side and spotted a white haired boy with bright, unearthly red eyes standing there, nothing but a simple rucksack over his shoulder.

“Oh,” he muttered, turning immediately. “Sorry. Thought it was empty.”

“No!” Maka said, immediately, and her eyes went wide when he quizzically turned to look at her. “I mean. . .it’s pretty much empty,” she corrected, and it seemed to be enough, her hint that she wanted him to stay, because, slowly, he walked back in and closed the door behind him, tentatively walking forward.

“. . .okay.”

“Okay,” Maka replied, giving him a nervous smile before she looked out the window once more, watching the world fly by, waiting for the moment when Hogwarts, looming and large and unmistakable would catch her eye.

“Thanks,” Soul mumbled, and she caught a fast glimpse of him from her peripheral.

“. . .no problem,” she responded, waiting a beat before she looked at him. “I’m Maka.”

And when he looked at her, the closed off look on his face seemed to soften. “. . .Soul.”

* * *

“This way! This way! Does everyone have a lantern? Oh, goodness, sweetie, no! Don’t go into the pond, it’s frigid! I’ll give you another lantern, don’t worry about it,” Maka heard as she stepped into the clearing with her group. The slouching, white haired boy with eyes like poppies grumbled forward, not clinging too close to her, but certainly close enough, and Maka turned to look at him, her brows furrowing for a moment before she bumped into something all too solid with a grunt.

She gave the slightest yelp as she felt the world tilt beneath her feet before someone grasped her arm and a dry, amused voice rung out: “Not as graceful on your feet as you are in the air, Maka?”

Her irritation is immediate before she blinked her eyes open and she saw her Uncle Stein standing, decked entirely in blue as he always was, looming over her with a slouch not too unlike the white haired boy beside her, who had been immediately grouped with her the instant they stepped off the train. Though, Maka suspected that her Uncle’s posture came more from bending over a keyboard and stooping to kiss Aunt Marie rather than anything else. She wondered what Soul’s excuse was. Despite sharing a train ride together, as well as being part of the same group, there hadn’t been much conversation happening.

Though, walking through the forest together, she felt grateful that someone else, silent or otherwise, was beside her in the spooky, massive forest surrounding the Academy. Not that she would be alone if he hadn’t been. There was a huge group of them, led by a woman with florescent blue eyes and long, immaculately styled dreadlocks.

“Professor!” Maka said, smiling for the first time in what felt too long before she tilted her head and looked behind him, a gasp in her throat, spotting the familiar shape of a small, blonde woman who was trying to hand out lanterns to the students while they waited at the clearing. “Aunt Marie!”

Marie barely had a moment to collect herself before Maka came barreling toward her, nothing but gangly arms and long legs that had landed in many a heap, and Maka threw said arms around Marie’s waist, her grin making her cheeks hurt. Marie took a single step back, the surprise on her face evident before she, too, smiled, and gently pressed her hands against Maka’s shoulders.

“Maka! I’m glad you came here safe,” she said, and waited until Maka pulled away slightly, her green eyes glittering in the eerily bright moonlight. Marie’s smile got more teasing. “No thanks to your father, I’m betting. How is Spirit, that letch?” Marie asked, but when Maka’s face fell, schooling a moment too late to hide from Marie’s prying gaze. Marie glanced over Maka’s head, her eyeline catching Stein’s, and he shook his head at her, the two of them communicating in the silent way that all well-established couples knew.

“Well,” Marie said, gently pulling Maka to her left side and whirling around, waving her wand for a moment before two lanterns hovered before the two of them, “I suppose that means I’m responsible for bringing you to the castle! And for making sure the scary monsters in the forest don’t get you.”

Maka’s mouth popped open for a moment before she laughed, tenderly elbowing her godmother in the side before she cupped the lantern hovering before her, warming her palms. “Don’t be mean, Aunt Marie, there are no monsters.”

“I don’t know,” Marie continued, sparing a single glance behind her to see how Stein was faring, “your uncle can be a handful.”

Maka snorted. “You shouldn’t have married him, then.”

“Ah, but I have two hands, Maka. Neither of which are occupied by a lantern! I’ll teach you that trick, one day,” she said, pitching her voice so it was soft and cheery, and from a few feet behind her, Stein sighed, shaking his head.

Marie was always one who only had eyes for Maka when the girl was in distress. A side affect of being by her side since she was born. Which left him in the dust. Stein waved his own wand quickly, half the lanterns in the air whooshing, none too gently, toward the new students without any warning.

“Nygus,” Stein called out, and the dreadlocked woman who had been guiding Maka’s group turned to look at him.

“Looks like we’ve got a stray, hm, Stein?” she hummed out, her bright eyes having caught Marie walking away.

“I’m taking this group of students,” Stein replied, and Nygus lifted a brow as she smirked, dusting off her pants.

“Because Marie went off, I’m assuming?”

“She gets lost, “ Stein answered, dryly, though several of the new students giggled.

“Yeah, yeah,” Nygus responded. “Don’t sneak off into the forest now, you hear?”

“Splendid advice,” was all he said, hoping the students assumed it was meant for them as a general warning for safety as opposed to meant for him because of the one (or twentieth) time that they’d played hookie in the forbidden forest, before he turned around. “This way,” he claimed, walking off, rather quickly, to Marie, who was still talking to Maka, trying to get her mind off of things.

When Maka looked over her shoulder, glancing back at the group, for an achingly short moment, Stein thought she looked all too much like her father.

* * *

When the hat touched her head, there was no time for Maka to even think or blink or breathe before “EAT” was booming out into the massive hall, just like it did for her father before her.

She didn’t want to admit that it stung.

But when the white haired boy with the slouch like a bow bent by arrows made his way to the podium, Marie’s gentle smile acting as encouragement, and he was called into EAT as well, she wondered if it would be less lonely.

Maybe it would have been, had she let it.

* * *

**September**

 

Maka excels in her classes because she does not allow herself to do otherwise. The workload has gotten her sent to Aunt Marie’s office more often than not, the woman’s eyes turning down as she’d warn Maka against doing so much extra credit. As proud as Marie is of Maka’s 107 in her Herbology class, she is concerned about how she is doing outside of academics.

Marie does not know that Maka spends her first month at Hogwarts walking from class to class with her books held tight to her chest. That there are some students who speak to her, but that she sits at the massive, enchanted tables in the mess hall and eats alone, a book spread open in front of her and napkins scattered about her in a semi circle as though in protection. Marie can not know that Maka’s only hobby is sitting in the library and falling asleep against well worn pages, her eyelashes fluttering in her sleep, casting shadows over the yellowed paper.

And Maka prefers that it stays that way.

“So,” Marie starts, her warm, smiling face fitting in perfectly in her office, “how do you like Hogwarts, Maka?”

Maka smiles back at her politely, taking a long sip of her tea before she answers, her green eyes taking in the room. As a head of house, for NOT, as opposed to EAT, Marie had been given a larger office than most, with multiple, likely enchanted plants looping up in gorgeous colors as though calligraphy. Marie has both magical and non magical flowers in multicolored pots that sit on her desk and her fireplace and her windows. Even at the beginning of fall, the massive sunflowers Marie has grow tall and looming. Marie’s wand sits in a hand-painted flask beside her, a sure sign that she is comfortable enough to unarm herself. She’d placed it in the beautiful, swirled glass the instant that she’d magically prepared the tea, flicking her wrist and levitating two golden teacups out of her cabinet.

“It’s nice here,” Maka answers, taking in the massive bookshelf behind her godmother.

“And your classes?”

“They’re going great,” she replies, before she catches sight of a particularly interesting book and gasps. “Aunt Marie! You have the Canterbury Tales in the original Old English?” Maka asks, the excitement coloring her voice, and Marie lifts a brow before she looks behind her, letting loose a giggle.

“Maka, I have the original manuscript.”

“Oh, god, Aunt Marie! Can I borrow it! Can I? Can I?”

Marie turns back to her, laughing slightly. “Of course! Though, don’t you think you have enough reading to do? I think I assigned two chapters last night.”

“I already read an Introduction to Benign Plantlife, Aunt Marie.”

“What? In less than a month?”

“No,” Maka says, and Marie watches as her expression dims slightly. “Mama had it. . .”

Marie looks over at her goddaughter, seeming to wince at having reminded Maka of her less than savory family life. ‘Had’ very clearly implied that Kami must have taken the text with her when she left Spirit, those few years ago, and Marie is upset at herself that she is less careful. It hasn’t been easy for Maka, missing her mother as she does.

“Well, then,” Marie says, reaching for her wand and plucking it out of the flask. “It would do you well to get some leisure reading in, then.”

And, with that, she makes a few small circles in the air, an incantation on her lips before the bookshelf slid open smoothly and the old tome comes floating out, bobbing in the air before it hovers right in front of Maka’s hands. Maka reaches out for it momentarily before she looks at her fingers and winces. “I don’t. . .I don’t have gloves.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s enchanted not to degrade,” Marie dismisses, releasing the levitation spell just as Maka grasps the book with both hands, looking like she is holding starlight itself.

“Really? Thank you!”

“Don’t worry about it!” Marie assur, and she gently sets her wand back down, picking her teacup up once more and taking a deep sip, watches as Maka fawns over the leather bound cover. “Though, I have to warn you, it’s a dense read.”

“Ah, I have time,” Maka says, slowly opening the book, careful of the spine.

“Schoolwork isn’t keeping you occupied?”

“No. I can finish it pretty quickly.”

“What about your friends?” Marie asks, realizing too late that it is the wrong question. Maka doesn’t answer, only tucks her head down closer to the book, as though to inhale the dust. Marie winces once more. “Um. . .well. . .why not join a club? We have a lot of them here.”

“No, thanks,” Maka says, and the monotone was undeniable. This isn’t where Marie is meant to pry, and she knows it. Despite her best efforts, she isn’t Maka’s councilor, and she is only her teacher for Herbology. She isn’t even Maka’s head of house, that job going over to Stein, who neither of them really wanted to worry, though Marie knows that if something is off, Stein is the first person to know what it is. Marie reaches for her wedding ring, twists it about.

“Well. . .what about the knitting club? It’s nice and quiet.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Cooking?”

This time, _Maka_ winces. Likely remembering all the times she ate alone waiting for her dad to come home. Marie feels her blood boil, makes herself a mental note that she must send Spirit a rather angry howler sometime soon in the mail. Hopefully, he’d open it when he’d be with whatever woman he’d manage to convince to spend the night.

“Jazz Appreciation? Your Herbology partner recently joined,” Marie says, trying to sweeten the deal by adding in the white haired boy, Soul, that Maka seemed most comfortable with, but her shoulders flinch in closer to herself and she whisperes, “No,” regardless.

Marie scrunches her lips to the side. “Isn’t there anything you want to join?”

“Not really.”

“Well, what do you do in your spare time?”

“I read,” Maka replies, seeming to put her nose against the book.

“Besides that,” Marie urges.

“I don’t want to join a club, Aunt Marie.”

“What about the Quidditch team? They’re having tryouts for the younger league right now-“

“I don’t have my broom,” Maka cuts in, sounding bitter, and Marie blinks at her in surprise.

“I’m sure we can think of something. I can have it sent ove-“

“No.”

“Miss Nygus is holding the tryouts. She won’t mind lending you a bro-“

“I’m gonna be late for curfew,” Maka breaks in, standing up, swiftly, and from beneath her bangs, Marie can see that Maka’s expression has hardened. “Thank you for the tea.”

Marie frowns, eyeing her wand and waiting until Maka turns her back to pick it up, flicking a flyer into the book just as it is closing and Maka has set her sights for the door.

“Any time,” Marie replies. “Feel free to visit.”

And when Maka finally comes to her dorm that she shares with the two Thompson sisters, who mostly ignore her, choosing to spend their time in the larger room designated for coed interaction, Maka opens The Canterbury Tales once more, only to see her spot bookmarked by the Tryouts flyer.

Burning it up came easily to her, her anger sparking at the sheet before she can even think. She watches it crumble in on itself, obscuring the image of people on their brooms, a hand outstretched for a golden ball, hair whipping in wind.

She doesn’t need to fly again. She doesn’t want to.

And that’s the end of that.

Until, of course, it isn’t.

* * *

**October**

“Turn to page 364,” Stein says lazily as he reclines back on his chair, throwing a piece of chalk up in the air, much to everyone’s confusion. “Uh, in what textbook, exactly?” someone, Liz, Maka thinks, asks, her brow raised. But Stein continues on, undeterred. “Right, Potions,” he says, as though suddenly coming to the realization of what class he is teaching. Maka almost wants to giggle. She knows he also teaches upper level Defense Against the Dark Arts with Aunt Marie, but that wasn’t an excuse. The classrooms look nothing alike. “Potions,” Stein drawls, “can be used for multiple purposes. Obviously. Medicinal,” he claims, tapping at the facial scar that runs beneath his left eye, “and otherwise. Now, who can tell me what this school’s nickname is?”

Maka’s hand is up in the air immediately, her face eager. Stein tosses the chalk up in the air once more. “Yes, Maka?”

“The DWMA,” she answers, proudly.

“Excellent. And what does the DWMA stands for?”

His second question prompts everyone to look around, waiting for someone else to take the nutty professor’s bait, but Maka’s hand goes into air again before the sentence even finishes in Stein’s mouth. Her Godfather looks around the room for a moment before his lip tips up just slightly at the corners. “Maka.”

“Defense with Magical Artifacts,” Maka answers, her voice carrying clear through the half moon shaped classroom, someone coughing ‘Nerd’ under their breath, but though Stein looks in the general direction of Ox Ford, he only nodds.

“Exactly right, Maka. And one of the many magical artifacts that you have at your disposal is potions. Any questions so far?”

At the silence, Stein only wheels himself over to the chalkboard on the side, covered up by a sheet. “Good, I don’t much plan on answering any. This class starts later than most because it goes hand in hand with Herbology. Most of your questions can be answered by Marie,” he continues, rolling around in his chair.

At the mention of the other class, many students groan, tucking their worn hands into their sleeves. It isn’t that Miss Marie hasn’t tried to protect them, with gloves and advice and healing spells, but the prick of various plants has left a good few rather wary. Marie is a good teacher, kind and patient and knowledgeable, but even she can’t prevent the prickly stem of some of the plants her students decid to handle without her advice.

Maka, though, liked Herbology. It was nice to be able to sit and surround herself with things that could be easily identified. But she presumes that she’d like Potions more. Everything in Potions had either a correct outcome or an incorrect one; she appreciates that simplicity.

“Since this is the first day, I’m going to let class out early. Also because I am in desperate need of a nap. Homework is to read the first 10 chapters of The Science of Brewery. Bootleg it or something. The internet exists, as you well know. No written work because I don’t feel like grading it. Dismissed.”

Maka, well used to her Godfather’s strange ways, immediately starts to pack up, though her classmates look rather confused. From her side, she hears a beautiful, tall girl with long dark hair and liquid brown eyes turn to a pink-haired girl, her voice pitched quiet. “But. . .it’s only been ten minutes since class started. . .and he came in four minutes late.”

“Who cares, Straightedge?” the pink-haired one replies, chewing some bubblegum and standing up, shoving all her sparse items into her bag. “We get out early. Have some fun,” she says, turning to walk out without any more words, and the dark haired girl yelps softly, sloppily grabbing her books.

“Wait, Kim!” she says, chasing after her, and Maka chews at the inside of her cheek. To think people had made such close bonds already.

“Ah, Maka,” she hears from the front, and she looks up to see Stein reclining back in his chair. “Could I speak with you a moment?”

Maka blinks, tilting her head, before she shoulders her backpack and makes her way down the steps to the front of the room, even as it all clears out.

“Yeah, Uncle Stein?”

“Just wanted to give you this,” Stein says, but his hands are empty and Maka’s brows furrow.

“Uh-“ she starts, before Stein simply holds up two fingers, snapping them and producing a piece of paper between them. Maka stared at him. “. . .thank you?” she says, reaching for it, her eyes skimming over the random ingredients and instructions listed on it. “But what _is_ it?”

“A potion for poor luck,” Stein answers smoothly, and Maka looks up sharply.

“Yeah, because I need _that_ in my life.”

“Not for you, Maka,” Stein replies, reaching for the wand he has in his pocket and waving it around so that his chair lifts from the ground, taking him up the steps. “For that boy in the front of the class who thinks his commentary is appreciated.”

Maka looks at her godfather, surprised. “You. . .want me to hex a student?”

“Of course not, Maka. Who do you take me for?”

 

“Good, because Aunt Marie would-”

 

“Not hex. Poison.”

“Uncle Stein!”

“Think of it as extra credit,” he replies, kicking off from a seat and trying to propel himself out of the classroom, though his wheels catch on the doorjam and he goes flying out of it, instead.

Maka sighs, closing her eyes in exasperation, but when she opens them, he is gone, and she is the only one left in the room.

She rolls her eyes, looking over the ingredients list once more before she gets to the bottom, flipping the paper around and seeing if there is anything else. But only the glossy flyer of the Quidditch Team Tryouts is there.

This time, she doesn’t crumple it up.

She figures the potion, at least, is worth keeping.

* * *

**November**

Maka hands in her extra credit paper for Charms with bright eyes, but she should have known that Miss Azusa wasn’t one to let a student leave without some sort of verbal dissection. Though, Maka’d made certain that she’d followed all of Miss Azusa’s rules to the letter when it came to turning in the paper.

So, she isn’t expecting to be stopped, but as she stands in front of the desk after everyone else had left, and Miss Azusa tells her to hold on a moment as she looks it over, Maka has a feeling she isn’t just going to be dismissed any time soon.

“Maka,” her teacher begins, looking up sharply from the paper, her glasses catching the glint of the lights above her. “Not that I am one to bar a student from learning, but you already have a 108% in this class,” Miss Azusa tells her, her eyes somehow flashing even brighter than the glare of her glasses, and Maka pinks slightly.

“Well. . .I just. . .I had the time and. . .”

As her words trail off into the open air, Azusa doesn’t look away. Perhaps there is a reason so many of the students call her Deadeye, and for more than just the fact that no one could ever slip anything by her. The woman would have been a hell of a sharpshooter in another life.

Frankly, in this one, Maka thinks that she is, too.

“I’ll accept this one, Maka,” Azusa assures, but just as Maka smiles at her, preparing to thank her and leave the room, Azusa continues. “But I won’t be taking any more. You do realize that a _100_ is meant to be perfect, yes? I shouldn’t give students more than that. This isn’t an advanced placement course.”

Maka looks down, scuffling her shoes back and forth against the ground. “Well. . .”

“Though, I certainly plan on giving a recommendation for you to be placed in such. Regardless, for the time being, if it is a matter of having spare time, and occupying such, perhaps a club would best suit you,” Azusa provids, adding the paper to a small folder on her desk and rummaging around for something. “Nygus has been attempting to recruit some new players for the team. . .I have heard from Marie that you are a natural on a broom.”

“Oh- no! I don’t. . .I don’t fly,” Maka says, looking up so quickly that her pigtails bounced. Though she loves her Aunt, she wishes that Marie wouldn’t brag about all of her achievements to anyone who would listen. Maybe it was time for her and Uncle Stein to have a child they could dote on instead of just their goddaughter.

“Is that so?” Azusa asks, her cunning eyes missing nothing. “Marie isn’t one to lie. I suppose that simply means you no longer fly. That’s a shame,” she says, this time, seeming to look right through her instead of simply _at_ her. “I, for one, think you’d soar.”

Maka can’t continue looking at her teacher, and instead looks to the side. “Thank you,” she mumbles, but she certainly didn’t feel grateful for the compliment. For a moment, she can imagine wind against her arms and cheeks, her hair whipping about, flying up into the air where the oxygen tastes cleaner, thinner.

“I do not give false compliments, Maka. If you are interested in doing extra, the Quidditch team would love to have you. Nygus says tryouts have been abysmal.”

And because it is Miss Azusa, who has a glance that could flay someone down to the bones, Maka actually accepts the flyer that the woman gives to her. If only so that her extra credit paper would actually be read.

“You’re under no obligation, of course,” Azusa assures her, and Maka nods, looking back down.

“Yeah. . .and I won’t write any more extra credit papers, Miss Azusa,” Maka promises, before she turns around, her fingers clenching around the flyer. “Thank you for reading this one.”

And with that, she walks off, not hearing Azusa’s sigh from behind her. As Maka walks, the momentum fluffs her skirt out, the fabric tickling at her legs as the slight breeze flicks over her skin.

But it just didn’t compare.

* * *

**December**

“Maka. . .um. . .”

Maka blinks a few times before she sighs. “Yes. . .Aunt Marie?”

“Well. . .”

Though Maka’s mouth scrunches to the side, muffling her words, and her shoulders deflate, she accepts what’s to come next. She already knows what her Aunt is going to tell her. “Go ahead,” she urges.

“Maka. . .”

“Go ahead.”

“. . .I was wondering if you were going to return Spirit’s calls,” Marie said, looking at Maka with her warm, sympathetic golden eye, and Maka refuses to meet her gaze.

“Why should I?”

“He’s been trying to reach you.”

“Good for him.”

“He’s just worried.”

“Doesn’t he get his status report from you?” Maka asks, and there was some sting in it. “Or Uncle Stein?”

“Maka. . .the holidays are coming up, and he’s worried.”

“Yeah,” Maka says, but it wasn’t an agreement. She can feel Marie looking at her.

“Are you. . .Are you going to go back home for winter break?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You could come with Franken and I.”

At that, Maka finally looks her Aunt in the face. In her heart, she knows that Marie was trying her best, acting as something of a liaison between Maka and her father, but the wounds are too fresh and, truthfully, Maka doesn’t really want to talk to anyone at all. The last person her age that she held a decent conversation with was Soul, but that had fizzled out since she’d done nothing to try to see him, and kept their partnership in Herbology as streamlined as possible.

Maka remembers holidays spent with Marie and Stein, back before they were married. Maka remembers Marie bringing pie over and laughing with her Mama in the living room as her Papa finished up whatever meal he was making in the kitchen. Maka remembers finding Stein down in the basement, seemingly looking at the nonexistent mold patterns. Now, she knows he was hiding the presents they’d all gotten for her, making sure she wasn’t going to find them.

It would be just her and her Papa, this year. Maka knows that Marie and Stein have plans to spend half their holiday break in Sweden, with Marie’s family, and half in Germany, with Stein’s. Marie couldn’t stop talking about it for months.

Maka can’t intrude on that.

“No, it’s okay, Aunt Marie.”

“Are you sure? It’s no trouble! We can get you a plane ticket without much fuss.”

Marie is a liar. An obvious one. But a well intentioned one.

“No, it’s okay. . .I’ll call Papa,” Maka says, and when she looks into the hot chocolate Marie had prepared for her, she can’t help but feel it is a tad more bitter than usual.

* * *

**December**

“How. . .uh, how is school?” Papa asks her over the massive dinner he’d made while Maka rolls food around her plate with her fork. There had been nothing but the empty sound of cutlery hitting against china for the past ten minutes, but her father trying to talk to her again isn’t an improvement. Maka doesn’t look up.

“Fine.”

“Have you made any friends?”

“Some.”

“Do you like your classes?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you doing well in them?”

“Mhm.”

“Have you joined any clu-“

“Papa. . .I’m not very hungry right now,” Maka says, looking away. “I’m gonna go to bed.”

“Oh! Oh. . .of course.”

“Yeah.”

“Well. . .uh, if you need me. . .I’ll be here.”

“Okay,” Maka says, standing up and pushing her chair in, like her Mama had taught her. When she reaches for the plates, however, she’s stopped by Spirit clearing his throat.

“I. . .I’ll take care of those,” he tells her, and Maka only nods, letting go of her hold on the plate and leaving the room, taking the steps two at a time.

When she comes back to her room, the picture frame has been put back up, despite the fact that she knows that she’d left it in the closet, with her broom.

And her broom was propped up by her door. Maka turns her head sharply, looks at the snow outside, remembers the ache in her heart for the feeling of wings. She was born to fly, that’s what everyone had always told her.

Who cares what Papa thinks, the fact that he was the one who taught her?

She wraps her fingers around her broom and she thinks it’s the most comfortable she’s been for a while.

* * *

** **

**January**

She returns to Hogwarts with a chip on one shoulder and her broom on another, and she knows winter tryouts have long since passed, but the summer games are still a possibility. Besides, she’s known how to play since before all her baby teeth were out.

Were she anyone else, she knows she would be told to wait until next year. But she isn’t. She’s Maka Albarn, with a heart fiercer than a tornado and an Aunt who has too many connections for her own good. So the private tryout with Miss Nygus is a privilege. Usually, students don’t learn to fly until at least their second year, when they’ve gotten some of the theory under their belt. Miss Nygus always seemed to focus on Maka during those classes, the physics and magical science behind levitation and flying always fascinating her.

But she didn’t think that her teacher’s unearthly blue eyes would be so unnerving as Maka stands before her, the broom held in her hand.

“Alright, Maka,” Nugus begins, her expression smooth and giving away nothing. “No flying, yet. I just need to know you can hover. Can you do that?”

Maka almost scoffs. Of course she can do that. She could do that since she was  eight years old. At that point, regardless of how many months she’d spent without her broom beneath her, it is equally as easy to drop it to the ground before stopping the fall a few inches before it hits the ground. Nygus, as unmoving as her expression is, still seems impressed by the move, and Maka can only barely keep her smile under control as she mutters a quick spell under her breath, letting the broom levitate before her.

Finding her way onto the broom is simple. One leg over, finding herself comfortably seated. And Nygus looks her over, her smile twitching up at the corners.

“Now, lift up a few feet,” Nygus commands, and Maka obliges. Maka obliges when Nygus requests she lower herself down a few feet, as well. To the left. To the right. To do a quick spin.

It is only when Nygus finally smiles at her fully, her eyes looking proud, that she whispers, “Soar,” and Maka obliges then, too.

Because the sky is her home. As it has always been. As it will always be. The wind comes to comb through her hair, a ghost touch that carries over her skin and against her clothes, and she lets out a whoop as she makes loops in the air, curls and shapes, as she spins around like she is starting a tornado, as she lets go of her broom so that she is holding on without hands, flying in circles.

And when she comes back to earth, Nygus is grinning.

“You’ll make a great Beater, Maka. Welcome to the team.”

* * *

The EAT team is a mishmash of random people, some of which Maka knows only in passing, others that Maka has seen in classes, actually spoke to.

She’s seen Black*Star, before, but not Tsubaki. The girl, more closely described as a woman, is Amazonian tall in comparison to almost everyone else on the team, with a liquid, graceful step, equally as graceful on a broom. Black*Star, less so. And it’s no surprise that Tsubaki is the chaser and Black*Star is the other Beater. Maka suspects that, in a pinch, he’d probably beat at the Bludger with his own broom, somehow finding a way. Liz and Patti, both, are a surprise. Not because of their positions, though Maka is slightly shocked that Patti was the keeper, with her slight form, slim and short. Maka would have expected for her to be the Seeker, though she understands why Kid, Hogwarts Prince, was the one to get the role, instead. He was even smaller and slighter than she was.  Liz and Tsubaki seem like a good pair for being chasers, and Maka looks around at her team, fidgeting slightly, not noticing that one person was missing.

“Uh. . .hi?”

“You’re our roommate, right?” Liz asks, popping her hip out and lifting her brows. “The bookworm.”

“Liz!” Tsubaki says, her elbow gently coming out to press against Liz’s upper arm, the two of them equally as tall. “Excuse her,” she continues. “It was rude.”

“It’s true, ‘Baki. I’m surprise she came out of the dorms.”

“Well, I’m sure she’s excellent,” Tsubaki says. “She wouldn’t be on the team if not.”

“Yeah, yeah. If Crona wasn’t requested by their loopy mom to be moved to NOT, she wouldn’t even be here. Isn’t it a little late to join?”

Maka kicks her boots against the dirt, looking to the side. “Yeah. . .a little.”

“Well, if you’re as good at flying as you are at studying, we’re sure to finally win a game,” Liz says, and when Maka looks at her, she knows it’s the closest thing to a warm welcome from the girl. Patti giggles from the side, her own broom held behind her so she formed a cross.

“I saw your tryout!” Patti says. “You’re pretty good. We should race sometime.”

“Hah!” Black*Star cuts in, clearly unbalanced at the idea of being left out of the conversation. “I’d beat both of you in a race! The Great Black*Star-“

“Yes, yes. The ‘Great Black*Star’. You didn’t even win against the first year,” Liz says, grinning evilly as she bent down to Black*Star’s level.

As Black*Star gasps, incredibly offended and ready to go off, Maka asks, “.  . .first year?”

Kid looks over at her at that. “You didn’t know? Someone else from your class is on the team.”

“Oh,” Maka says, looking at the group once more. She’d figured that the team would be mostly older, what with Liz and Tsubaki looming tall, likely fifth years or older. Patti’d had one detention too many _not_ to be known as the fourth year with five years worth of pink slips, and Kid and Black*Star are both third years from what she can assume.

It is then that she hears the footsteps behind her, and she turns, spotting the familiar red eyes and white hair she’d seen every other day in class for over half a year.

“. . .Maka,” he says, as though surprised that she is there, and Maka fidgets, leaning against her broom.

“Yeah. . .hi.”

“I didn’t know you flew.”

“Well, uh, I do,” she says, and she can’t help smiling in relief that there is someone she knows on the team.

“You two know each other?” Kid asks, looking from one to the other.

“Yeah,” Maka answers simply, maintaining eye contact with her lab partner. “We met on the train,” she elaborates.

“And we have Herbology together,” Soul finishes, still slouching, but seeming to straighten up just the slightest bit when Maka smiles at him. From behind her back, Liz and Patti share lovestruck looks as though to mock them, good naturedly.

“You’re the new Beater, right?” Soul asks, and Maka nods, hearing the sound of someone, Nygus, bringing out all the equipment for their practice. “You gonna have my back?”

Maka’s smile widens. “Of course.”

* * *

Nygus tells them all, a few practices in, that they’re lucky that Maka had joined so early since she came back from break. Otherwise, there would be no way that they’d all be prepared for her first game. But the team is as cohesive as they come, all coming together closely. Maka feels light and fizzy in the air, volleying quiz questions with Soul during practices that take place close to exam dates, getting gifts from Patti for good luck that Maka ties to her uniform and her broom, laughing with Black*Star. Tsubaki sits with her, both of them reading quietly before practices, waiting for everyone else to show up, and Liz teases her about how cute she and Soul are. Kid and Black*Star always urge her to fly faster, notice more minute details, to keep up. And they all sit together at the great tables and shovel their faces full of food the instant dinner comes along after practice.

Instead of books spread out in front of her, it’s friends.

* * *

She’s been staring at the phone for a good few minutes now, left alone when she gave Liz and Patti a look, halting their prying before it could be too painful.

Papa still tried to contact her, sometimes. But Maka’d been adamant about ignoring it all.

Still, it was her first Quidditch game. . .and she’d already reserved him a seat.

He was the one who taught her how to fly, after all.

So, she takes a deep breath, reaches for the phone with both hands and gulps harshly as she whispers the phone number into the waiting receiver, no need to press buttons like on the phone back home. She waits for it to ring three times, four times, five times, and is both relieved and disappointed when she gets the message for a voicemail.

Bitterly, she wonders where her Papa is. Who he is with.

But she swallows it down.

“Hey. . .” Maka breathes into the receiver, feeling as though she could eat her own heart. “I know it’s late but. . .I wanted to tell you that I made the team. . .as a Beater. And. . .well. . .my first game is on the 22nd. . .and you can. . .show up. . .if you want.”

* * *

Her outfit is bright and new and shiny. She feels hopeful and happy, and she hovers over the entire crowd on her broom, delighting in the fact that she is back in the air once more. The other team hovers right in front of them, all of them looking ready and eager for the game to start. Maka’s teammates surround her, Soul the most comforting presence to her right.

But when she looks down at the crowd, expecting to see a flash of red, all she finds is Marie’s shock of blonde hair, her small form practically bouncing as she cheers Maka on.

Had he. . .had he really not shown up?

At first, it is only disappointment that fizzes out relatively quickly when the match starts, and she is ducking and weaving and the world narrows to the sliver of sky she is occupying.

But halfway into the match, when she hears Marie scream out “That’s my girl!”, so proud and happy, Maka cannot help but look down, hoping against hope that her Papa was just late like he usually was. But when she catches Marie’s eye, she is the only one there.

The hurt radiates through her, the anger at her father letting her down, again, and when she slams her bat against a bludger, it sails through the clean, crisp air so hard, it collides against Clay’s broom and shatters the front of it.

“Hey!” he screams, flying in loops, out of control, but Maka turns away, her shoulders up and defensive, ignoring the concerned looks of her friends as she brings herself close to her broom and flies forward as fast as she can.

She has long since learned to call the sky home. She just couldn’t have predicted that she is the thundercloud in it.

* * *

**February**

“Ah!” Soul yelps, and Maka realizes a moment too late that the bludger she’d absentmindedly hit had skid by a tad too close to his side. “Watch where you’re aiming that thing!”

And Maka snaps back to reality, tense for a moment and nervous before she relaxes, grateful she hadn’t actually hit him. And with that relief came her own snark, her voice ringing.  “Well, if you weren’t asleep on your broom, you’d be fine, Soul!” she replies, but there is no bite to it. Soul was so reliably cantankerous, she finds it comforting.

Truthfully, she should have been watching where she was aiming. It had been six matches since she’d started, and they’d won every single one, but not without her getting more and more aggressive on the broom. Nygus had pulled her to the side about it, asking if something was wrong. Marie had done the same. Stein had given her the ingredients for a calming draught. Trying to help in his own, emotionally constipated way. But they weren’t the problem. Aren’t the problem. Her grades aren’t the problem and her team isn’t the problem, because Soul just looks at her and rolls his eyes, though she can read the concern on his expression, regardless.

No, he isn’t the problem. Quidditch isn’t. Flying isn’t. She is good at what she does. She’d won six games out of six!

And her father came to none of them.

Even through the leftover snow that blurred her vision toward the end of January, and the bitter cold of early February and the hail that came, Maka had played the games, hot inside from the anger.

She shouldn’t have been surprised.

She wasn’t. She isn’t.

She wishes she can find a way to be angry at her Papa without having to take it out on everyone and everything else.

* * *

**March**

It’s not a holiday, but the package in front of her looks an awful lot like a gift. Everyone in the mess hall gapes and stares as Maka’s owl, beautiful with large brown feathers and golden claws, drops the awkward shape right into the middle of the table, and Maka blinks at it for a moment, taking note of the gaudy bow.

After a second, Patti claps. “Happy birthday, Maka!”

“It isn’t my birthday,” Maka says, but her hands reach out to tear at the paper, anyway. Slowly, piece by piece, she undoes the twine holding the brown wrapping, the bows immaculate, and when the sheets fall away, Maka’s jaw drops down.

The broom in front of her is sleek and strong and has two beautiful wings flaring out toward the bristles. Everyone around her oohs and aaahs and she feels her heart thump in her chest.

Her palm smoothes over the clean, gleaming wood, her first name engraved right where her hands would go, and she trails her touch over the handle until she gets to where the bristles are bound in golden and silver wire braided together. Slowly, she lifts the broom up, feeling the light weight of it in her hands. She’d fly without any drag at all on a broom like that.

Quickly, she looks over to where the teachers were eating, catching Marie’s eye, but though her Aunt is smiling, she shakes her head slowly, mouthing that it wasn’t her.

Maka’s brows furrow, and she looks back at the paper, spotting the card at the very bottom, slightly crumpled. Slowly, ever so gently, she sets the broom back down on the table, snatching up the card, eager to know who the mystery present was from.

_‘Maka,_

_I always knew you might as well have been born with wings. Your old broom is probably worn out from all your games! I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to them. I hear from Marie your championship is soon. Here’s hoping you can lead your team to victory on this, Angel!_

_xoxo, Papa’_

She reads once, twice. Soul looks over her shoulder and she lets him because she doesn’t know how she is meant to feel, but she thinks that, of anyone, Soul might understand. He doesn’t put a hand on her hand, but when she crumples the note up and stands, grabbing the broom a tad too aggressively so she could leave to her dorm, he says nothing. And that is comfort enough.


	3. Chapter 3

** **

**April**

Her shoulder aches and the rain is weighing down her hair. The blond strands drip and the wind flails the liquid into her eyes, her bangs plastered down by her helmet. The crowd roars as Crona races forward, their slim fingers outstretched toward the golden snitch.

Maka inhales sharply.

It isn’t that she’s off her game because of the blistering wind or the needle-like rain or the humidity that sinks into her very pores and leaves her feeling heavy and slow. Truthfully, she thinks that she’s just so burned out. The fire in her belly has dimmed, previously fanned by the fury she had toward her father.

But what was the point of that, now? This was the last game. The end. Soon, the year would be over, and she’d be going back to the house where Papa was only there half the time. All her friends would go back to halfway around the world where they came from, and Uncle Stein and Aunt Marie would only visit occasionally, instead of being there every time she needed them.

She’d be alone.

So, maybe, that's why she wanted to draw the game out for as long as possible. She'd read that matches could go on for months sometimes, if no one caught the snitch, so, of course, even when her sharp eyes caught sight of a flash of gold skidding around on the outskirts of the arena, she’d said nothing to inform Kid. Thankfully, the NOT team had seemed equally as frustrated at not being able to see the snitch in such bad conditions.

Maka should have known that Crona, light, and fast, and detail oriented, would have located the flying orb, even in the near darkness of the storm. People underestimated them, but Maka knows better.

So, this was it, she supposes. All that training and all that work, amounting to NOT winning the championship. Maka’s throat feels like it is closing up and the thunder booms around her. From the side, she hears the crowd for NOT go wild, all of them chanting Crona’s name.

Crona deserves it, Maka thinks. And, besides, it's her fault that her team is losing. Soul had cursed more than once when a bludger that she was supposed to keep away from them landed all too close to the bristles of his broom. Now, however, he seems more concerned regarding how she’s feeling than anything else, and she hangs limply in the air as another bludger passes by her, slammed in her direction by one of NOT’s beaters, Kim.

Maka closes her eyes from behind her goggles, looks up at the tumultuous clouds that all but roared, soaking her to the very bones. Her pigtails hang limply at either side of her head before the furious gale whips them into her eyes and she has to bow her head to throw the locks out of her face.

When she does, she manages to look down at the stands. Hovering over NOT’s side, of course, all she sees are happy, cheering faces. People who are eager for NOT to win the championship. They wave their red and black flags, their voices high and joyful, a sweeping crescendo only increasing in volume as Crona’s fingers almost touched the snitch but falter at the last moment when their broom caught onto the wind, knocking them back.

The flags make something inside of her sad, the red of it. Usually, it would snap her, ignite her with the familiar fury that she always felt when she knew her father wasn’t there.

Why she continued to put so much emphasis on him being there, she didn’t know. And especially in a game where they were losing so badly. She feels like a little girl, feels her age all too deeply all of a sudden. She is eleven and it has been two years since Mama left. She should have been used to Papa not being there for her, by now.

She grits her teeth down onto her lower lip, tasting the rainwater, almost wanting to bite through. She’s sure that, under the second skin of her leather gloves, her knuckles have gone white from how her fingers clench.

She’s let her team down. She let her teachers down. Nygus has believed in her, and she is still standing off to the side, encouraging everyone. She knows Uncle Stein is in the crowd, Aunt Marie letting her loud voice go wild with her enthusiastic cheers from beside him. A particularly harsh gale reminded Maka of such, since it whirled through the arena, amplified by the semi closed off space, and Maka is almost knocked off of her broom. The world goes wobbly as Maka spins around, the harsh wind no doubt dislodging almost everyone, and the collective gasps from the people down in the stands only become more apparent in comparison to Marie shrieking out, “COME ON, MAKA! YOU CAN DO IT!”

The yelp Maka lets out is particularly high pitched as she grasps her broom with both hands instead of just the one, accidentally letting go of her bat. She closes her eyes as the wind sends her reeling.

This wasn’t like her dreams, when someone was always there to catch her. Deep inside of her, she knows that no one would be willing to see her fall down into the dirt, a tangled mass of blonde hair and mud and broken bones, that Nygus or Azusa or Aunt Marie or Uncle Stein would release a spell, hands likely already on their wands in concern, so that she’d hover comfortably before she would ever touch the ground.

But she wants her dad. She wants Papa. She doesn’t want to remember when she was little, faltering on the broom, and he’d put his hands beneath her armpits, steadying her as he always did. Maka’s eyes clench tight and she tries to get control of her broom again only to be hit by another angry wind, nearly forcing her off her broom entirely. She shrieks out, desperate for some kind of leverage as her fingers go to grasp her broom and miss, the hold her legs have on her broom slipping momentarily. Her heart beats in her ears, the pulse felt throughout all of her, down to her very fingertips.

“MAKA!” she hears from somewhere around her, and she feels the confusion join in with the fear to meld in her chest.

That. . .that was a voice she hadn't heard in a long time.

And just as she is certain that she will never know which way is up ever again, she feels her momentum stop, the wind quieting down just barely and someone stopping her fall as she collides against them. Their arm came out to her shoulder, steadying her, and Maka’s eyes fly open as she sucks in a harsh breath, filling her lungs with air. As her pupils refocused, the haze of confusion coming away and the rainwater sluicing down her goggles, she is surprised to see that Black*Star had been the one to catch her, his grin shaky as he holds out her bat.

“C’mon, Maka! How will you ever be a big star like that?” he asked, the concern more than obvious in his voice, but Maka doesn’t take the bat or the bait, nor did she answer him. Instead, she wildly looks around, her eyes bouncing from tower to tower, desperate to find something. She ses Black*Star from from the corner of her gaze, his confused call of “Maka? You rattle your brain or something?” not deterring her in the slightest.

When she lookes to the crowd, the blue is the first thing she notices. Which meant she had been knocked to the other side of the arena, spinning and spinning until she made her way to where the EAT bleachers were. In those seats, there is barely any deviation from the color scheme. Those who weren’t wearing hats were sporting blue umbrellas, but Maka locates the bright shock of gold that indicated that her Aunt was there, at seat 586B just as she promised, and the woman is jumping up and down from beneath the umbrella Uncle Stein is holding up against the wind, her NOT House scarf billowing in the wind but the blue flag for Maka’s team waving proudly.

That, in of itself, isn’t the surprise. Aunt Marie had gone to every single one of her games, whether they were in rain, shine, or blistering heat. No, it is who is seated next to her that makes Maka’s heart stop. The slightest sliver of bright red, shining out from a sea of blue. And his blue jacket is several shades lighter than all the newer merchandise, even though it is darkened in the rain.

And it is the lettering on it that made the tears in Maka’s eyes well up.

52.

That’ her number. That’s her _number_ . And that’s her _Papa_ standing in the crowd. When he catches her eye, his grin, apologetic and proud and concerned and everything she wants it to be spreads halfway over his face and he lifts his thumb at her.

The world shrieks to a stop before it starts whirling again, and Maka takes a deep breath in, staring at him for a moment.

Nothing is okay, really. Not that she ever expected it to be. There is still anger in her toward him, somewhere. Anger that whips around like the wind that surrounded her all those games before that he had not come to. Anger that ignited her belly and made her feel like she was a bolt of lightning, sharp and blistering. Anger that she had used to replace how upset she was, anger that she had leaned on for so long.

But he is here, now. He has shown up and it is more than he had done, before. Always forgetting. Always caught up with something else.

And though it isn’t okay, far from it, it is something.

So she lets the relief spread through her, warming her even against the wind. She lets herself be happy, the smile spreading over her face before she can even decide if she wants it to or not.

“THAT’S MY GIRL!” Spirit shouts when Maka turns back to the game, her head held up high. Black*Star has started hitting the bludgers with both bats and Maka scoffs, clutching her broom tightly with one hand before she bends down close to it and zooms over, snatching her own from his grasp.

“Wha- Hey!”

“Taking back what’s mine, B!” she says, whirling around and slamming her bat against the incoming bludger, managing to direct it right in front of Anya’s path before she can throw in the quaffle for more points, and the girl lets out an undignified squeak as she drops it before Soul whips by her, catching the ball and looping his way to the other side of the arena, throwing it hard enough that it made a clean pass into their goals. Maka grins, punching the air when their scoreboard went up 10 more points, much to the delight of the EAT crowd. “Good job, Soul! Yeah!”

“Ha!” Black*Star says, witnessing the impressive move, his grin spreading so wide over his face that Maka can make it out despite the helmet. “So I guess that means you’re done moping, Incredible Sulk?”

“I wasn’t moping, jerk!” Maka snarks, watching as Soul chases after another quaffle, grabbing it and evading both Meme and Anya, who are ripping after him with a vengeance.

“Yeah, right,” Black*Star teases. “I was ready to start calling you the Lord of the Sighs.”

“Oh, please!” Maka rolls her eyes. “You don’t even know that book.”

“Do so!”

“Sure you do,” Maka responds sarcastically, making an effortless arc over his head before she hits the bludger aimed toward them, managing to slam it between Anya and Meme, knocking them off balance just enough so that Soul can throw his head back, laughing as he circles his way back to the goal post and throws the ball through the storm once more so that it hits home. Maka hears the EAT crowd roar in approval, but she knows that a few good points aren’t going to end the game for them. So, she looks around, locating their Seeker and watching as Kid flies his way forward, the rain soaking down his outfit, but otherwise not deterring him as he makes his way right behind Crona, chasing the snitch.

Maka looks back down at the stands, taking in her Papa’s hopeful face, Marie elbowing him in the side and looking particularly angry about something. Maka laughs, looking forward to the hellfire her Papa will face at Marie’s hands.

Still. . .after so many months of not seeing her dad, she doesn’t want to admit that just having him there lifts her spirits, at least, just a bit.

It is because she is distracted that she doesn’t notice the first time the snitch passes by her face, hovering right in front of her nose as though to mock her. She doesn’t notice the second time, either.

It is only when it flies by her ears, the buzzing of it so loud that it seems to hum in her very skull that her gaze refocuses and her eyes widened comically. The snitch is. . .right there. Right before her. As though it chose her.  Maka blinks at it before she inhales sharply and her arm twitches, ready to grasp the snitch, but she remembers that only Seekers were allowed to touch the snitch. Everyone else, too preoccupied with the game, with throwing the quaffles through the hoops and readjusting to the rain letting up, don’t notice.

Which is why, when Maka split her lips and screams out  “KID! KID! THE SNITCH!”, the entire game seems to stop for a moment.

And then, it breaks open. Crona changes direction so fast, it is like they took an impossible angle, and Black*Star almost can’t keep the bludger from crashing against Maka. Had he not, it would have likely broke her broom and sent her falling as a result. Instead, she is only shoved to the side, watching as Kid desperately tries to make his way toward her, but Crona is just too fast.

She doesn’t even have to think, really. The only warning she gives, in the split moment before she throws caution to the wailing wind and throws her arm back, she screeches out “WATCH YOUR HEAD!” and only sees Kid mouth “Wha-“ before she slams her bat against the bright gold orb in front of her and aims it directly at Kid’s face.

As undignified as his yelp, and as much as the confusion flared up in the stands, Maka leans back on her broom. “LOOK ALIVE, KID!” she shrieks, and she watches as the snitch zooms past Crona’s cheek, so close that she swears Crona can feel the air of it, before it continues its trajectory to sail through the air and forward forward forward-

-before colliding with Kid’s helmet, making such an angry smack that even Maka can hear it from how far away she is, the force of it all sending Kid spiraling, his whole self looking disoriented, as well as the snitch itself, whose wings seemed to beat weakly and in different directions. Maka watches with bated breath as Kid brings a hand to his head as though to feel for the dent in his helmet, but clutches onto the golden orb instead, which fits snuggly in the pit of his palm.

There is silence in the crowd, the referees blinking, open mouthed and amazed at the scene before them, before a loud, roaring laugh filled the entire arena and Maka looks over at her father, who is clutching his stomach,  a tear in his eyes and a grin etched on his face.

Maka goes bright pink as her teammates surround her, confusion humming around them. “Is that. . .is that allowed?” Tsubaki breathes, zooming over to Maka’s side, her Chaser’s uniform billowing as the rain lessens.

“Well,” Maka says, “there’s nothing against it in the rule book.”

“That can’t be allowed!” Kim hollers from across the room, throwing her helmet off, her cunning, achingly aqua eyes drilling right through Maka, angry that her team might have lost. Likely, she had bets placed on NOT. “Tell them, Straightedge, that it isn’t allowed!”

Straightedge, Kim’s favorite nickname for Jackie, hovers right next to Kim, also taking her helmet off, her expression soft as she looks at her. “Well. . .actually. . .there’s really nothing about it in the rules.”

“Are. . .are you serious?” Tsugami asks, blinking around owlishly.

“No way! We lost on a technicality? I call foul! Where’s the ref?” Kim demands, looking around with a pout. “Where’s Miss Nygus? This can’t be allowed!”

But there's no sound from the announcer’s box.

Or, there wasn’t for a good two minutes as everyone looked around, no fouls being issued, all the quaffles and bludgers falling to the ground like stones as the last remnants of the storm ebbs away. The snitch sits, quiet and seemingly content, right in Kid’s hand as he stared at it.

The silence is almost thick before it shatters, promptly and without warning.

“EAT HAS WON THE CHAMPIONSHIP!” cuts through the air like a gunshot, and for a moment, no one can move.

And, then, it is chaos.

“WE WON?” Tsubaki gapes, and Patti zooms forward, throwing her arms around Maka’s waist, her broom hovering beneath her as Maka yelps, letting go of her bat, which falls to the ground just as the quaffles had.

“P-Patti! That’s dangerous!” Liz warns, but Patti is cheering.

“Maka won us the game!!”

“Maka!? What about me, the Great Black*Star? I gave her the bat!”

“I-I actually. . .I caught the. . .the snitch?” Kid says, his voice slurring slightly.

“Maka. . .” she hears Soul say from beside her, the warmth in his voice making her cheeks heat up.

“MAKA! THAT’S MY GIRL! DID YOU SEE THAT, FRANKEN? THAT’S MY _GIRL_! I KNEW SHE COULD DO IT! MAKA! MAKA!” Marie chants, and Maka stares down wildly as her Godmother claps her hands and laughs, stirring up a massive roar of Maka’s name from the crowd.

“We. . .we won. . .” Maka says, and from the bleachers, she sees her father smiling.

* * *

 

The trophy is heavy and comforting in Maka’s hands as the EAT team jumps around and celebrates together. Nygus practically had to fly herself to get it in Maka’s hands, because her team had crowded around her so much, but the pride on her teacher’s face was unmistakable, and Maka’s smile is brighter than the sun that shines happily above her.

She thinks it might be coincidence that she sees Spirit, because the crowd is so dense that she thinks it would blot out anyone. Aunt Marie is unable to be seen through it, but Maka can spot Uncle Stein standing, head and shoulders taller than anyone else. And, when he spots her, too, his eyes flick over to Spirit standing just ahead of him. Stein seems to lean down almost uncomfortably, and Maka knows he’s talking to Aunt Marie, because the next thing she knows, Aunt Marie’s voice is hollering over everyone else.

“Okay, everyone! Let’s celebrate in the Great Hall where there’s food!”

And, seemingly, that’s all it takes. Who needed magic? Charms and potions and herbology and defense against dark arts didn’t stand a chance against the single mention of anything edible at that school, and Maka looks around as everyone races forward, particularly her very hungry team. Marie only spares her a single glance back, winking at her. Or, at least, Maka thinks it’s a wink. Hard to tell since her Aunt wears an eyepatch. Nonetheless, everyone else scatters.

All but Soul, who hangs around her, looking uncertainly at Spirit in front of them, suddenly clearly visible.

“Maka. . .”

“It’s okay, Soul. I’ll meet up with you guys in a bit.”

“. . .are you sure?” he asks, and she turns to him, finally taking her eyes off of her papa. Her heart seems to swell in her chest, and she smiles at Soul. It was a smile that she hadn’t had during the game, or even after she won it. But softer, warmer, saved especially for him.

“Yeah. . .save me some cake?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Soul grumbles, looking at Spirit once more before he, too, walked off, looking back at her just once. She doesn’t know exactly why, but she suspects that Soul would stick around through anything if she asked him to. He was so unlike Papa, in that way.

And speaking of Papa, the conflicted knot in her stomach tightens when she focuses on him once more.

“. . .hey Maka,” he says, his smile sheepish. “That was a good game you played. Smart move-“

“Where were you?” Maka asks, not in the mood for small talk, her eyebrows meeting close to the middle as she chewed on her lip.

“Maka-“

“All my other games! Where were you?”

Spirit is silent for a moment, only holding her gaze for a few short seconds before he looks away. “I don’t have an excuse, Maka. I’m sorry.”

“. . .You. . .you don’t even have a reason?”

“Not a good one. . .Maka. . .Maka, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” he says, looking back at her, and the hurt on his face is genuine.

Maka’s lips pinch at the edges, her eyes burning. “You weren’t there,” she accuses, rightfully.

“I. . .I know. I’ve been a terrible Papa to you. . .I’m sorry,” he repeats, and Maka glances at the ground.

“All those games. . .and you never showed up.”

“I’m sorry, Maka! I really am sorry. I just. . .I got caught up with stupid things and I shouldn’t have. And you’re so good, Maka! You’re amazing! I was stupid for not coming, I’m sorry. I’ll go to every single one of your games from now on, Maka. I will never miss anything ever again. Never-“

But before he can continue to ramble on, Maka feels the tears prick at her eyes and she runs forward, throwing her arms around him and cutting him off mid-sentence. Spirit has to take two solid steps back from how hard Maka collides with him, his hands in the air as though unsure where to put them. He can only stumble out a shocked “Maka. . .you. . .you forgive me?”

“No!” Maka says, muffling herself against his jacket. “You weren’t there and I was so mad and you were awful and you broke your promise!”

Spirit looks down at the top of her head, his eyes sad, his arms still suspended in the air before she looks up at him for the briefest time.

“But you’re here now. . .” she says, before burying her face against his jacket once more.”You better show up from now on or I’ll never let it go.”

And it isn’t “It’s okay”, because it isn’t, but it is enough, for know. She knows that. And he knows that. It isn’t okay and it won’t be for a while. But he smiles, softly, and promises to be there for her.

“And. . .and we need to fly again. . .just so I don’t get rusty!” she insists, her face still burrowed in the rain-soaked material of his jacket. Spirit’s brows lift up for a moment before he smiles.

“Of course, Maka. Of course.”

As his hands finally settle on his daughter’s shoulders, the sun shines above them.

And he thinks maybe it’s time he digs out his old broom so they can fly together, again. He figures he has some lost time to make up for.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! This is one of my entries for Reverb 2016! I had the pleasure of pairing up with HappyisaHabit over on Tumblr and got the chance to write for the amazing comic she drew! She can be found on Tumblr at happyisahabit.tumblr.com and her wonderful art is here! http://happyisahabit.tumblr.com/post/147450503820/in-den-wind-schreiben-to-write-in-the-wind-means
> 
> S/o to my amazing Betas, Makapedia, SoJustifiable, and Professor-Maka! Thank you guys for going over this, despite it being super last minute!


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